fight club as a metaphor (for something else)

what’s the first rule

of fight club?

don’t tell that boy

with the long black hair

and green, green eyes

that you think he’s pretty

what’s the second rule

of fight club?

don’t tell that lady

with the lilacs braided 

into her hair that you 

want to hold her hand

and yeah, the rituals 

are intricate, which you

know because you’re the

one that constructed them

this is a dance you know

all the steps to,

whether it’s with another's hands

on what’s left of your hips after

years on testosterone, or alone

in your kitchen with a 

cheap bottle of wine

and it’s that skin on skin

that you’re after, willing to

get it through bloodied knuckles

and chipped teeth

if his hand is in your hair,

at least he’s touching you,

ya know

and if she hooks a single finger

through a belt loop to

pull you close, well,

then you’d follow her anywhere 

you’re burning up the rules,

the carefully constructed rituals,

and the city along with it

you’re an inferno in the force

of your love that can’t

be put out